Driven By Hatred
by Jim B
Summary: One of Jarod's old foes returns for revenge. Chapter 3 now up! Sorry for the delay
1. Default Chapter

THE PRETENDER: DRIVEN BY HATRED  
Jim Bevan  
  
Note: This is my first attempt at writing any type of fan fiction. I hope that you all like it. I was inspired by the episode "Ghosts from the Past" and wondered how any of the other criminals Jarod brought to justice would react if they met up with their captor again. Enjoy.  
  
CHAPTER I: DIRTY BREAKS  
  
Dawson's Auto & Body Repair  
  
Phoenix, Arizona  
  
The Phoenix night was dark, calm and peacefully quiet throughout most of the city, the serenity absent from some of the bright and noisy all- night businesses. One of these was Dawson's auto repair center, a small garage that had garnered quite a bit of positive fame for its provision of quality auto service 18 hours every day, complete with its own gas station and car wash. A green tow truck pulled into the driveway of the garage, lugging one of their customers behind in a silver Sedan. The truck pulled up to the garage door and came to a halt.  
The drivers of both the truck and the Sedan got out and shook hands. "Thanks again for coming to pick me up," said the Sedan's owner, a Hispanic man in his mid-30s, clad in a gray suit and blue tie. "I have to tell you, mi amigo, it's a rare occasion when the people in this city ever bother to help someone else. Even the guys who run it can't depend on too many of them."  
"Well, there are always a few exceptions," the tower replied, a handsome man in his early 40s wearing a blue mechanic's outfit. "Me, I'm one of those people who's always there to help those in need. Even members of the city council. Speaking of which, I wish you the best in the election next week, Councilman Galindo."  
"Thanks for the support. I'm pretty sure I'll be able to pull off another victory. After five terms on the council, the public knows what a man can do. So, I assume I have your vote mister.?"  
"Jarod. Jarod Goodwrench," he replied. "Now, before you say anything, I know the irony of a man named Goodwrench working at a garage. I assure you, it's coincidence." He waved to a man standing by one of the gas pumps. "Chris will get your car in the garage and we'll have it fixed in no time. Meanwhile, why don't you get comfortable, watch a little TV, and relax." With that, Jarod led the councilman into the main office while Chris and two other men began leading the defunct car into the garage.  
  
Martin Galindo laid back on the couch in the garage's waiting room, thumbing his way through the latest copy of Maxim. He was quite relaxed. After a six-hour council meeting that was more boring than the usual ones, and then a car that gave out on him before he could get home, a little thing like this was more than welcome. As he chuckled at the latest reader- submitted jokes, he was disrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He looked over and peered at the middle-aged black woman standing over him. "Mr. Galindo, your car has been fixed. It's in the garage, so you can get it whenever you wish to."  
"I'll be right there, Mrs. Dawson," he responded. "Just let me finish this page." The woman and also owner of the garage, Jasmine Dawson, gave him a peculiar look before heading out. Galindo snickered at a few more of the jokes, then tossed the magazine onto the table and got off the couch, following the owner.  
In the garage, the sounds of wrenches, drills, sparks and chatting workers resonated with a nearly musical rhythm. Rachel led Galindo over to the lift where Jarod was busy wiping grease and oil off of his hands. "Well, we fixed the problem sir," he said, tossing the oily rag aside. "Your oil tank was punctured. It was a considerably small hole, but enough to drain the tank dry." He pointed to the car raised up on the lift. "Pretty nasty, if you want my opinion."  
"Ay, Dios mio!" Galindo uttered in frustration. "How the hell did my tank break? I didn't drive over anything."  
"It's a mystery, I'll admit," Jarod said. "But I identified the cause. Someone used a corrosive compound to eat away through the tank. It was small enough to allow for a gradual leak, so your car would give out while driving."  
"All kinds of crazy sons of bitches in this world," Galindo said, a tinge of anger still in his voice. "What kind of loon would do something like this."  
"Actually, it was no loon. It was me. I put it on before the council meeting let out for the day." Galindo turned and looked at Jarod oddly after hearing this. Unfortunately, his distraction enabled Rachel to grab him from behind, securing the councilman firmly. As Galindo struggled in the woman's strong grasp, Jarod got a pair of jumper cables from a work drawer and used them to tie his arms together behind his back.  
"Hey, what the hell kind of game is this?" Galindo asked in anger.  
"Oh, it's no game," Jarod said, "But I certainly am having fun. Hopefully you will too." He pushed him over to the lift area and tipped him over, letting him fall face forward on the ground. Rachel brought over another pair of jumper cables and handed them to Jarod, which he used to tie Galindo's legs together.  
"Are you sure this is all right, Jarod?" she asked, her voice quivering with apprehension. "I mean, I know what the guy did, but can we really do something like this?"  
"Believe me, Rachel, a man like this deserves it," he responded. He went over to Galindo's twitching body and rolled him under the lift.  
"What's all this about," Galindo shouted, still writhing in a futile effort to get out of his binds. "I never did anything to you. I never did anything to anyone! I don't deserve this treatment!"  
"You're wrong, Martin, you do deserve this, because you did something horrible," Jarod said, his voice taking on a harsh tone. "You said that after five terms, the public knows what a man can do. You're wrong, because the public doesn't know how you killed a little boy."  
"I don't know what you're talking about!"  
"Of course you do, councilman. You remember last month, you were driving home after a particularly hard day of work, and a night of particularly hard drinking, you ran over a seven-year-old boy in the street. His dog got away from him, he went after it, but he was right in your path, and you were too drunk to react in time. But your mind was still functioning well enough to process what had happened after you hit him. That if anyone knew of this it would ruin your career. So you drove off, left him to die."  
"You're crazy! You can't prove any of that!"  
"No, but there was proof available. After you hit the boy, the fender of your car was damaged and a headlight broke. You needed it repaired, so you came here. Then you bribed Mrs. Dawson and her crew to cover it up, hide the report of the repair so the hit-and-run couldn't be traced back to you."  
"I'm still ashamed that I took that money," Rachel said, a tear forming at her eye. "I didn't let anyone know, and I denied that boy's family justice. But now I know what I need to do. I'll gladly testify under oath that you bribed me. It won't ease my guilt, but I'll be happy to know that poor boy's parents will have some comfort in knowing who killed their son."  
"This is insane. As soon as I'm out of here I'll have you two in prison! Neither of you will see daylight until you're in your 90s!" Galindo shouted, the fury in his voice rising.  
"Sorry Martin, I don't really respond well to threats," Jarod said. "I can see you're going to make this difficult, so it seems we'll have to resort to some more drastic measures. Chris, bring her down." Following the command, Chris pulled a lever on the wall, and the car on the lift slowly lowered. "Now, since you won't do the noble thing and admit your guilt, I'm afraid you'll have to be punished."  
"Hey! Hey! You can't do this you son of a bitch!" he shouted, fear mixing with the rage in his voice. His eyes widened in horror at the sight of the descending car. "I'm a very powerful person! I've done great things for this city!"  
"That may be, but I don't think it will matter much when you're dead," Jarod chimed in. "Hope this won't hurt your chances at re-election."  
"Somebody, somebody stop this car! Help me!" Galindo shouted, looking at the workers in the garage. Not one of them made a move, they just looked at the frightened man struggling in his cables. He looked up again at the car, noticing how much closer it was to his body. He was desperately fearing for his life, and panic took control of his brain. He had to do something to survive, and there was one option that he felt would save him. It didn't matter what would happen to him afterwards, as long as he was alive. "All right! It's all true! I had been drinking, I hit the kid, I paid Dawson, I did everything you said because I couldn't lose my position!" By now he was sobbing hysterically. "Please, please just let me go. I'll give you anything you want, just don't kill me."  
"Oh, you've given us everything we need already," Jarod said, smiling. Rachel nodded and pulled a recorder out of her pocket. "And everything the police need as well. Chris, you can stop it now." Chris hit the lever again and the lift stopped, leaving the car only a foot above Galindo. He turned to Rachel with a look of satisfaction. "Thanks for your help, Rachel."  
"Thank you for yours, Jarod," she replied, giving him a little kiss on the cheek. "I'll go call the police and tell them to come over. I hope that God can forgive me now for what I did."  
"I'm sure he has, Rachel. You're a good woman, and I know that if your husband was still around he'd be proud of you." As she headed toward the door, she was stopped by a request from Jarod. "Oh Rachel, before they come, mind if I use your car wash? There's a little scum I need to clean up." He looked at Galindo, a sinister smile on his lips.  
  
The police were at Dawson's garage in 20 minutes. Many of them couldn't help but laugh at Galindo, drenched with soapy water after a deluxe wash. The jumper cables that bound his hands had been exchanged for a pair of metal handcuffs, and Rachel had given the chief the tape with his confession. As he was led away to the squad car, Galindo glared at Jarod, currently laughing at his latest quarry, with a gleam of murderous hatred in his eyes.  
"I really hope that some day you'll suffer for this, you miserable bastard," he shouted. "Who gave you the right to pass judgement over others?! Everything would have been fine if you'd have just stayed out of this!" Before the police shut him in the car, he pointed a finger at Jarod. "Go ahead and laugh now, act like an avenging angel, but keep this up and pretty soon somebody's gonna come back and give you what you deserve. I pray I'm there to see it when it happens." Galindo was placed in the car and driven off.  
"Once again I have to say thanks," Rachel said. "And I'm sorry you have to leave. You were a great asset to the garage. We're all going to miss you."  
"Well it pains me to leave, but that's kind of how my life is." He gave Rachel a hug and headed towards his own car. "I'll miss you two Rachel, and I wish you the best." Jarod got in his car and drove off into the night. He always regretted this part, leaving behind his friends. Sure, he kept in touch with them, but all his running never gave him the opportunity for any real long-lasting friendships. He sighed dejectedly, and then considered what Galindo had said. In his travels he'd made as many enemies as he had friends, and he knew that many of them would be out for his blood if they had the opportunity. He flashed back on a few of them: Efram Bartlett, who'd nearly killed him twice in the south; Lester Carlson, the bomb-squad member he'd arrested for setting his own explosives to gain publicity; Captain Prentis McClarenn, who was exposed for killing a fellow soldier in Vietnam; Jack Brevins, the parole officer who used ex-cons in his own robbery scam. There were many more, but Jarod doubted that any of them would have a chance to extract revenge. They'd be in jail for a long time, rotting thanks to the confessions he extracted from them. He put thoughts of his old captures behind him and continued his drive, wondering where to go next. Who else would need the help of the "Avenging Angel?" 


	2. Driven by Hatred, Part 2

THE PRETENDER: DRIVEN BY HATRED  
Jim B.  
  
- Thanks for all the feedback from readers. It's only through constructive criticism that a writer can improve. I've taken your advice, hope it improves the second chapter. Enjoy.  
  
CHAPTER II: FREEDOM, AND THE QUEST TO TAKE IT AWAY  
  
Nevada State Prison  
  
Carson City, Nevada  
  
"Based on your performance and behavior in our prison these past four years, and from the testimonies of psychologists and fellow inmates, I can safely assume that you are free to re-enter society, posing no greater threat to any other citizen in this great state of Nevada." The prison's parole board office was filled with a cacophony of murmurs from the civilian prisoners, many cursing the decision to let a convicted murderer walk free. All eyes were on the ex-con, a middle-aged man with a somber look on a face scarred by numerous beatings, desperately trying to hide his progressing baldness with a comb-over. The board chairman banged his gavel to call for silence. "Congratulations Peter Morgan, you're a free man."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Morgan said in a sympathetic tone. "During my time in prison, I have been haunted by the memories of what I did to that poor girl. Simply apologizing for my actions will never repair the damage I have done. I only hope that some day I can atone for my sins, and gain the forgiveness of God, Miss Blaire, and all the others I've hurt." The gavel was banged again and Morgan was led out of the boardroom by a guard. No one missed his ever-increasing smile as he left, the smile of a free man.  
  
The next morning Morgan walked out the gates of the penitentiary with some of his personal belongings, state-allotted money and the rest of his own funds, clad in a freshly-pressed suit and carrying a superior look on his face. He needed to be escorted out by a guard for his protection: a number of people had assembled outside the prison to protest his release. Morgan occasionally had to duck some debris thrown his way, but for the most he ignored the cries of the protestors. The cries of "Murderers can't walk our streets!", "Justice for Maggie Blaire!," and "Give Morgan the gas!" all fell deafly on his ears. Still dodging insults and heavy trash, he was escorted to a cab outside the main prison gate and driven into the city.  
  
The cab stopped at the Plaza 50 strip mall, where Morgan got out. He paid the driver $15 and watched him speed off. Morgan was grateful the ride hadn't cost him too much; he had very little money left since most of his funds had been used to pay the family of Maggie Blaire, and the rest had gone to his ex-wife Kitty for alimony. "Divorced me in prison," Morgan sighed, lamenting his former wife. "So I slapped her around a little. I still loved her. Probably better off without her anyway." Trying to ignore his wife, Morgan thought about something he'd been deprived of for the last four years, a hot meal. He went to a Subway in the shopping center's dining plaza to get a decent lunch.  
  
"Turkey on Italian rye, with extra tomatoes and Provelone," he gave his order to a young black man in glasses behind the counter.  
  
"Okay, turkey on Italian rye, that'll be $20," the black man said.  
  
"What the hell are you talking about? The menu says a regular sub costs $7.50."  
  
"Sorry sir, murderers pay extra," the clerk commented, giving Morgan a dirty look. Not willing to pay any more than he needed to for a sandwich, Morgan walked away. He picked up a newspaper from a stand and sat at one of the plaza's tables. As he read the headlines, he noticed how many people were avoiding him, ostracizing him because they knew of what he'd done.  
  
"Go ahead, treat me like a pariah," he grumbled. "Like you're all better than me." He went back to the paper. Interestingly, he was on the front page. It was only a short article, but the headline got right to the point: "MURDERER WALKS FREE THANKS TO EARLY PAROLE." Morgan assumed that everyone had already read the story, seen his picture which had been captioned "Convicted murderer Peter Morgan," and decided not to associate with a felon. He silently cursed and continued to thumb through the edition, heading for the classified section. If he wanted to make some money back, he'd need a job, and there was no chance he'd be hired back at the Marquis. Morgan's nose ached at the thought of his old job. It had been broken by his old boss Steve Hanlon's goons after he was accused of stealing money from the casino, and any unpleasant memories of that day brought back the pain.  
  
"I better find something good. If the worse comes, I could be working alongside that jerk at the Subway." He continued to search for the want ads, but was stopped by a story in the national section. His eyes narrowed in on the article: "KILLER COUNCILMAN BROUGHT IN BY MECHANIC" the headline read. Morgan quickly absorbed the story. A city council member from Phoenix was arrested for a fatal hit-and-run. The person who exposed him was a mechanic named Jarod Goodwrench. Next to the story was a picture of the heroic handyman, a close-up shot from a Fourth of July parade the garage he worked at participated in. Morgan eyeballed the photo of the man, and was shocked when he saw his face. "Felson!" he shouted, and the anger began to rise within him.  
  
The pain in Morgan's nose returned stronger than before as he remembered that fateful day. Advised by the Marquis' new head of security, Jarod Felson, Morgan agreed to help expose a scam where thousands of dollars were being siphoned from the casino. He'd gone along with it, hoping that Hanlon would reward his efforts. Unfortunately, there was no scam, it was just a ploy by that Felson to get him arrested.  
  
The pain intensified as his mind flashed back to the events that transpired when he walked into Hanlon's office after the sting had gone down. "Steve, you won't believe what I've been doing," he said exuberantly, hoping to garner praise and possibly a promotion from his boss.  
  
"Hit me," Hanlon responded, a cold look on his face. He was shocked when his boss turned on a video that showed Morgan going along with the "scam".  
  
"Take the skim to the drop, deposit the rest in the bank," he'd said to the fake armored car courier. He desperately tried to explain himself.  
  
"Steve, I wasn't really taking the money. We were just."  
  
"There's a lot of unreported cash leaving this casino."  
  
"I know, and."  
  
"And there's a great deal of money going into your Swiss bank account."  
  
Morgan was greatly confused by this. "I don't have a Swiss bank account." He hoped to defend himself, but his hopes were killed when he was presented with a set of money transfers. He couldn't believe it. These were papers he'd never seen before, and yet his signature was on all of them.  
  
"An electronic transfer for $4.6 million. That is your signature, isn't it."  
  
By now Morgan was frustrated. He crumpled up the phony papers and looked to Felson for help. "I didn't do this. Tell him, tell him the truth." He was ready to kill Felson when the security chief sold him out.  
  
"I am sorry, Mr. Hanlon. I'm sorry I didn't catch onto this sooner." Morgan was outraged. The jerk set him up! "And the figure is closer to $4.8"  
  
Morgan went to strangle his recent hire. "An instinct in my gut told me you were bad news." He lunged after Felson, but was stopped by two security guards. They held him and began beating him severely, working the gut and the face. He desperately tried to get them to stop. "Steve, I didn't do anything wrong!" he shouted, but to no avail. His eyes narrowed on Felson when they momentarily stopped. "Felson, dammit. I didn't do anything. I didn't do anything wrong," he growled.  
  
Felson got right up to Morgan's face and answered him unsympathetically. "Neither did Maggie Blaire." The guards continued beating him while Felson left the office. Even through the pain, Morgan's mind was elsewhere. How did he know about him and Maggie?  
  
"Felson, come back here!" he shouted, but he didn't return. The only people who entered the room were a group of police officers. A middle-aged black man, Detective Richard Bindle, stopped the guards from beating him and slipped a pair of handcuffs on Morgan.  
  
"Peter Morgan, you're under arrest for the murder of Maggie Blaire. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney before speaking to the police and the right to have an attorney present during questioning now or in the future. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you before questioning."  
  
"Felson, if I get my hands on you you're a dead man!" Morgan shouted, but to no avail. Detective Bindle finished reading him his rights and led Morgan away. More unpleasant memories came flooding back to him. He remembered the trial, how evidence he thought he'd eliminated resurfaced, how his own wife testified against him on the stand, how the judge gave him a life sentence. But that was all in the past, now he had his freedom, and information on the man who put him away. After a convincing performance as a repentant sinner, his true persona was again emerging.  
  
"You really think that changing your name will help you, Felson," he muttered with rage. "All the time you spent in the casino, you forgot a golden rule: never mess with the house. Time for you to pay up." Morgan got up from the table and headed out of the mall, ignoring the spiteful comments from the other patrons. The only thing he focused on was locating Felson. First he had to get his car; it had been in impound since the day he went to prison. Granted, it would be costly, but he figured it would all be worth it if he could just put a bullet between the eyes of Jarod Felson. Grinning, he went to the mall's entry and hailed another cab. He needed to get to the impound lot..  
  
Dawson's Auto & Body Repair  
  
Phoenix, Arizona  
  
"Even for a freak like Jarod, I can't fathom why he'd do this," Mr. Lyle said as he surveyed the garage. "The guy could have worked anywhere in a cool climate, yet he chose to sweat it out half of each day in a garage near the desert. During the hottest month of the year, no less."  
  
"Jarod's madness always has a logical method behind it, baby brother," Miss Parker commented. "It doesn't matter where he's working as long as he can instill his own perverse style of justice." She wiped a brow of sweat from her forehead. The desert heat was excruciating. "Let's get inside. We might be able to get a good lead, and hopefully it's air- conditioned in there." They left their car and walked into the garage's main office.  
  
Once inside, they probed Rachel Dawson for information about her ex- employee. "Fine man, Jarod," she said, smiling as she reminisced. "Most days he was here before I was, always giving his work a hundred percent or more. Very friendly person, too. Wasn't too rare that people would stay for quite a while after the work was done to have a nice chat with him. Reminded me quite a bit of my husband David, God rest his soul."  
  
She opened a drawer in her work desk and pulled out a rectangular package and a red notebook. "He left these here before he headed out. Said to give them to some friends if they stopped by. Either an old man with a fatherly-face, a brunette woman with a permanently sour outlook on life, or a guy with no thumb. Neither of you have a very fatherly face, but you fit his descriptions, so I guess these are for you."  
  
Rachel handed the packages to the two Centre operatives, Lyle taking the notebook and Parker the package. Lyle looked through each of the pages, finding information regarding auto repair and scattered newspaper articles. "LOCAL CHILD KILLED IN FATAL HIT-AND-RUN", one of the headlines exclaimed, "HALSTROM FAMILY WEEPS OVER THE LOSS OF THEIR CHILD," another said. "A logical method to his madness," Lyle muttered. "Catch a killer driver, bring a family solace. Very noble, Jarod, but don't think it clears you in my book."  
  
Miss Parker was very confused by her package. She'd opened the parcel and found it to be a CD rack, each slot containing a Genesis album. "Jarod really loved Phil Collins," Rachel commented. "Whenever he was in the garage, he'd blast some music, sing along, pretty soon have everyone else joining in. I never went for that stuff myself. I prefer the classic soul. Luther Vandross, Mel Torme, Al Greene. They were wonderful." Parker noticed a slip of paper in between two of the racks. She pulled it out and read the message:  
  
"Now I can't keep you Mama, but I know you're always there. You listen, you teach me Mama, and I know inside you care. So get down, down here beside me, oh you ain't going nowhere. No I WON'T HURT YOU, MAMA, but it's getting so hard." "Genesis" (1983) Banks/Collins/Rutherford  
  
Miss Parker was puzzled by the note, but she knew what the bold  
letters represented. Another of his little taunting clues about what happened to her mother. She put in her pocket and waved to Lyle. "We'll get nothing here. Let's head out." They thanked Rachel for her time and left the office. Upon exiting, they noticed a man who seemed to be tampering with their car. Concerned, Parker drew her gun and cocked it. The man heard it and put his hands up.  
  
"Whoa, whoa, ease up there. I'm just cleaning the windows," the man said, trying to defend himself. With his hands still in the air, he turned around and showed himself, a man in his mid 30s, slightly chubby, with a brown crewcut. He wore a mechanic's outfit identifying him as an employee of the garage. "I'm Chris, I just thought it would be good if the windows got a little wash. They were pretty dusty from the ride over. Could pose quite a risk for a driver."  
  
"We applaud your initiative and good intentions, but if you think you're getting a tip for that you're dead wrong," Lyle stated. He got in the driver's seat, Parker in the passenger side, and they drove off. Chris stared at the car as it headed over the horizon.  
  
"Thanks a lot, scumbags. Now I know why Jarod asked me to give your car my own unique tune-up," he shouted, knowing they wouldn't hear him. Chuckling, Chris headed back into the garage to do some work. As the car sped down the road, Parker began to sweat again. The desert heat did not agree with her.  
  
"I always thought time with you was hell on," she said to Lyle, "but I never thought the heat would accompany me. Crank on the AC, I'm roasting." Lyle adjusted the climate control knob, but it failed to activate. He repeated it a few more times, but no air came out. "What the hell is wrong with that thing?" Parker fumed. She then tried the knob herself, but to no avail. Groaning, she laid back in her seat, but her eye caught something in one of the air conditioning vents. It was another sheet of paper, a corner sticking out for easy reach. She pulled it out and read the message:  
  
"Chris does some fine work, doesn't he? Hopefully it isn't too long a drive back to the jet. Long exposure to extreme temperatures can be excruciating. Thankfully, it's only a dry heat. Adios, amigos.  
Jarod."  
  
"Miserable little. look at this!" she shouted, handing Lyle the paper. He glanced it over and grunted in frustration, knowing that it would take two hours to reach the Centre jet, two hours with a woman he hated and no cool air.  
  
"I am definitely going to kill him when I see him," he commented, wiping some of the building sweat from his own brown as the car headed down the dusty Arizona road.  
  
"People here in Arizona are quite friendly," Peter Morgan contemplated as he pulled out of the driveway of Carmen's Pollo Palace in Mesa, Arizona. He'd inquired about Jarod to the owner, Carmen Solis, who'd informed him that he'd spent two weeks there as a waiter. Using the picture from the paper, he'd also gleamed some information from the restaurant regulars who knew Jarod as to where he was going. From what he'd heard, Jarod had some business "south of the border." "Trying to leave the country. Still won't save you, Felson." His plan had gone very well; after getting his car back and withdrawing his remaining money from the bank, he told his parole officer he'd found a job offer in Phoenix. All he needed to do was call every week, make a personal appearance once a month, and he'd still be in good with the law. "Won't even take me a month to get what I need," Morgan muttered as he drove south. Once in Mexico, he'd finally be able to even the score with the man who put him away. But there was still one thing he needed for complete satisfaction, a gun. He was very thankful that firearm background checks weren't used in Mexico. He passed by a sign indicating he was only 200 miles from the U.S./Mexican border. "200 miles to go and you're mine, Felson. Let's see you weasel your way out of this." 


	3. Driven By Hatred, Part 3

THE PRETENDER: DRIVEN BY HATRED  
Jim Bevan  
  
CHAPTER III: ON PATROL  
  
Del Rio, Texas  
  
Jarod looked out at the steady stream of cars, stretching for miles back into Mexico, each one eagerly awaiting passage through the checkpoint. The sun was much brighter and hotter here than he'd experienced in Arizona, and his head was pounding from the heat. Still, he had a job to do, and a little headache wasn't going to keep him from completing it. He walked over from the booth to a beat up Oldsmobile Cutlass where his colleague, a black man in his early 30s and clad in an identical white shirt, gray pants and black hat bearing the insignia "United States Border Patrol." Currently, his partner was in a scuffle with the car's driver.  
  
"Listen Shipton, the last three times you've been through this checkpoint you're carrying something you shouldn't be," the black man said to the driver, a young white man with a brown crewcut and a rodent-like face. "Now contrary to what you may think, employees of the federal government are not stupid. So if you're coming this way again, then there is a strong chance you have some more illegal contraband with you. So tell me where it is!"  
  
"Ah, come on Officer Anderson," Shipton responded in a typical Texan drawl. "Look, I admit I made a few mistakes in the past, everyone does. But I'm hurt, hurt by your accusation that I'm continuing in a criminal trade. People change, and I think I proved it. You searched the entire car from engine to trunk, including my person, which I both enjoyed and objected to," he gave a superior, insulting smirk, "and you've yet to find anything. Now, does this mean I can go."  
  
"You'll go when I tell you to, Punk!" Anderson shouted to his face. "I know you have smuggled goods on this car and I'm going to find them. Now make it easy on yourself and tell me where you hid them!"  
  
"There a problem, Mark?" Jarod asked, coming up from behind his partner. "It seems this man is giving you quite a bit of aggravation, and I don't want to think about how the people behind him feel."  
  
"Jarod, say hello to Eric Shipton." Shipton waved to Jarod following his introduction. "Repeat offender. Apprehended three times last year carrying in a whole mess of stuff wanting to make a profit: liquor, cigars, illegal fireworks, et cetera. Now I believe history repeats itself, and he's trying to pull this again. Only problem is, I checked over the entire car and couldn't find a damn thing."  
  
Jarod rubbed his chin, wondering where the smuggled goods might be kept. He looked at the man in the driver's seat. Reminded him of Argyle, and Jarod knew what a pain he was. He figured that Shipton acted like Argyle as well, tried to be clever but was actually a fool. He leaned in through the window. "Good afternoon, Mr. Shipton."  
  
"Please, call me Eric." He extended his hand out, and was met with a hearty handshake. "You seem like a nice guy. Can you tell Boss Godfrey to stop being so mean? Forget the past and let bygones be bygones. I mean, come on, I don't have anything with me."  
  
"Boss Godfrey?"  
  
"What, you never seen Cool Hand Luke? Gotta watch it, great movie, one of Newman's best. I loved it. 'What we have here is a failure to communicate!' A classic."  
  
"Sorry, I haven't seen too many movies. However, I am inclined to agree with Officer Anderson in suspecting you have smuggled goods on board. Mark, you checked the seats, trunk, all that, right?" Anderson nodded in agreement. "Well, we could always check inside the tires. Got a knife?" Anderson produced a pocket knife, and Shipton promptly panicked."  
  
"Whoa, woah! You ain't carving up my car on some hunch! I got rights, and I haven't paid off the insurance yet."  
  
"Relax, Mr. Shipton, it's just a little joke. However, I would like to examine your trunk again. Could you open it for me?"  
  
"Sure can, got a button that opens it from the inside. Don't think it'll do ya any good, though. Ol' Mark checked it twice already, found nothing."  
  
The trunk was popped, and Jarod proceeded to the back of the car. "Sometimes it pays to take a closer examination." He looked inside and saw a variety of material: a tire iron, dirty magazines, spare clothes. Everything seemed to be in order. But something seemed different, out of place.  
  
"Mark, come here for a minute," Jarod called his partner over. He came and looked into the trunk. "Does anything about this seem. out of the ordinary? Nothing really obvious, just not commonplace?"  
  
"Jarod, I checked it twice. I've been on the job 16 years. If something was out of the ordinary I'd have noticed it."  
  
"Yes, I could tell, but I've had a little experience with cars. And from what I know about a Cutlass, the trunk seems. smaller than usual." He began banging on the back of the trunk's interior: nothing but a few dull thuds from the knocks. Still, instinct told him this was wrong. He was vindicated by the nervous look on Shipton's face. He knew that if Anderson hadn't taken the keys, he'd be flooring it right now. Jarod craned his head into the trunk and screamed out, "Policia! Salido con sus manos arriba!"  
  
"No me lastime, por favor!" a muffled voice came from inside the car, originating from behind the backdrop of the trunk. The fake back was kicked down, and a middle-aged Mexican man was revealed to be curled up in the real rear. "Me entrego."  
  
"Ah, Pedro we were almost clear!" Shipton shouted in disgust. "You couldn't have stayed quiet for a few more minutes?!" He banged his head against the steering wheel in frustration. Anderson came up to the driver's side, opened the door, grabbed him by the wrists and led him out.  
  
"I knew it. My instinct told me you had something. This is actually a step up for you. Keep transporting people, you would have been a rich man. If, you hadn't passed by our way, of course." Now Anderson gave the superior grin to the grumbling Shipton as he led him to the checkpoint booth to be held until the police arrived.  
  
By the car, Jarod was trying his hardest to comfort the Mexican man. He was disheveled, his clothes dirty and he was panicing. Jarod put a comforting  
hand on his shoulder. "Relaje, usted no tiene nada temer. Mi nombre es  
Jarod, le ayudare a conseguir su casero."  
  
"So this Shipton guy's a career smuggler," Jarod asked Anderson as he drove them back to the Del Rio main office that evening. Their shifts had ended, and the only real excitement during their workday had been the incident with Mark Shipton. He'd been taken into custody by the police, and the Mexican man, Pedro Salovar, was being returned home. with promises of receiving an immigration application in a week (suggested by Jarod.)  
  
"Yeah, he's been doing it about 2, 3 years now. Wasn't up until a few months ago that people started getting wise to him. We've caught him on a few separate occasions, but most of the time he manages to get through. I don't know, maybe some of the agents are on the take, but I know almost all of them, and they wouldn't do something like that. Still, never thought a guy like Mark would decide to go coyote."  
  
"A coyote?" Jarod inquired.  
  
"Little slang term we use for people who transport illegals into the country. Don't ask me where it came from, but it's a commonplace expression now."  
  
"Jarod sat back in his chair and thought about the connotation. "So, if Shipton's the 'coyote', I guess that makes us a couple of roadrunners, eh Eric."  
  
Anderson chuckled at the joke. "Man, you've got a good sense of humor, Jarod. But how the hell could you know that there was a false back in the trunk?"  
  
"I told you, I've had a little experience with cars. Spent five weeks at Dawson's garage in Phoenix." Anderson laughed at this one as well. "What a wit. My buddies will love you. They'll be back from their shifts about now, so we'll sit around, play some cards, chat. Hopefully you'll join us."  
  
"I can't wait, sir."  
  
The car finally pulled up to the small stone building on the city outskirts. Jarod and Eric got out and entered through the front door. Inside they found two men sitting at a table, laughing hysterically, munching on chips and playing cards. Anderson cleared his throat and alerted the others. They stopped playing and laughing and looked up from the table.  
  
"Jarod, I'd like you to meet Steven Bell," he waved to a 30-ish man with a blonde mullet, "and Patrick Finn, our Deputy Chief Patrol Agent," he motioned to a man in his early 40s with a black pompadour. Anderson then pointed to Jarod. "Steve, Pat, this is our newest officer, Jarod Collins. You're not gonna believe this, but first day on the job he managed to bust Mark Shipton for immigrant smuggling."  
  
"Wow, now that is impressive," Finn said in amazement, getting up to shake Jarod's hand. "Usually it takes the new guy about four months to catch Mark in the act. I can see why the bigwigs in Miami gave you such a good review."  
  
"Yeah, with you working here, Jarod, Finn's gonna have to watch out or else you'll pass him up for CPA post," Bell chimed in  
  
"Nice try, I'd kill you before you beat me out for CPA." Finn laughed hysterically and slapped Jarod on the back. He jerked forward, quickly regaining his composure and joining in the laughter.  
  
"Well, now that we all know each other, let's play a little 7-card stud," Bell suggested.  
  
"Oh, man I'd love to, but I have some work to do at home. Sorry, we'll do this tomorrow." Jarod said goodbye to his colleagues, left the building and started walking off toward the city.  
  
The cool night air felt wonderful on Jarod's face, a welcome respite from the heat he'd endured all day. "The night has this strange effect on people," he thought to himself. "Everyone is overcome by this feeling of calm, serenity. I've always thought that the image of the night sky and the stars affects certain sensory receptors, and that's what causes the feelings of peace of relaxation." He waved to a cyclist travelling past him on the street, and turned onto Hamilton Lane. There he walked to a massive building of stone and steel, surrounded by a barbed-wire gate. A bronze sign on the gate read Val Verde County Prison. Jarod walked up to pillars by the front doors and rang a buzzer, signaling the intercom.  
  
"This is Agent Collins of the Del Rio border patrol. I have an appointment to see Daniel Ramirez." The doors opened before him.  
  
"Come right in Agent Collins," a female voice came over the intercom. "We've been expecting you." He walked through the gate and entered the main area.  
  
"Please wait right here, Mr. Collins," the woman at the front desk said. "I'll get one of the guards to escort you to Mr. Ramirez's cell." The woman headed off and Jarod pulled his latest red notebook out of his pants pocket. He flipped through to see the articles he'd collected. The first one showed a picture of two beautiful Hispanic girls in their early 20s, smiling and hanging out together. TRAGIC FATE FOR MEXICAN GIRLS, the headline read, accompanied by the subhead Friends since childhood found strangled, bodies uncovered in river.  
  
The second article showed the girls in individual photos, still with gleeful expressions on their face. They were identified as Meche Gabrillo and Diana Cortez. INNOCENCE LOST, DREAMS DEAD, this headline read. Victims of brutal murder hoped to start new lives in America. The last article showed a picture of a Hispanic man in his late 20s being escorted by police. SUSPECT APPREHENDED IN MURDER OF MEXICAN WOMEN. The caption informed readers that the man was Daniel Ramirez, while the article told that he was a recent immigrant to the country who knew the two victims when he lived in Mexico, and who had already been in jail for a series of felonies in the past. Jarod looked up from his book with a sorrowful expression on his face.  
  
"Agent Collins, we're ready to take you to Mr. Ramirez's cell," said a large man who'd appeared. He took Jarod down the hallway, passing by a number of convicts who were sobbing, screaming, swearing and pounding their heads against their cell walls. They stopped at a cell, and the guard opened the door. "You've got 10 minutes with him. Be careful, because as far as we can tell, he's a killer."  
  
Jarod entered the cell and the door was closed behind him, the guard standing close watch. He moved over to a man lying on a cot. He was about 27, had his brown hair cut short, and was silently sobbing into his pillow. "Daniel?" he asked with a wavering voice. "Danny, can I talk to you for a minute."  
  
Ramirez looked up from his pillow and stared at Jarod, tears in his eyes. "Go away, man. I just wanna be by myself," he sobbed with a slight Hispanic accent.  
  
"I need to ask you some questions, Danny."  
  
"Please, just go away. I told the police everything I know and they didn't believe me. I'm not a liar or a killer, and I don't want anyone else calling me one."  
  
"I know you're not lying," Jarod said in a sympathetic tone, "and I know you didn't kill those two girls. I just want to know why you're in jail, and why the man who murdered them is still free." Ramirez stopped crying and looked at Jarod's smiling face. He felt, knew he could trust this man. And he knew this man would trust him, probably help get him out of here. He silently prayed to God for help and invited Jarod to sit next to him. 


End file.
